They're Just Words
by CharmingNotDarling
Summary: She looks up to find his eyes are as filled as her own, and that the heart on his sleeve just jumped ship and is now clinging to the collar of her blouse, making the fight for breath that much more difficult.
1. Surrender

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The knock was soft, and low, filled with hesitation and uncertainty. I know it's her despite the hour and the fact that I've only just dropped her home. Time is of no essence for us. We have so few boundaries, so few censors. I mean who needs boundaries when you have fine lines and walls anyway right?

I open my door and find her; hands in her front pant pockets, and a half cocked smile across her gorgeous face. I take a step back, and say nothing as I let her into the dark rooms behind me. I was on my way to bed and the only light comes from the green glow of the hall way night light I keep for Parker. I do not mention the hour or the fact that her smile does not reach her eyes. She drops her head slightly as she passes me in the door way. I'm uncertain and concerned. This is not my Bones. As natural as these visits can feel she's not one for them. My Bones, she doesn't cross that line. She keeps those walls high and thick, nothing touches her. Ever. When there is a late night calling, it's usually me at her door camouflaging what ever demons are haunt me that night with Thai food or Wong Foos.

I am the one who drew that line, after all, however fine a line it may be.

I'm the one who tip toes around her walls, who walks along them day and night but, never through them. I leave them high. I tell myself they make her who she is. Angela or Sweets would tell me they're only a part of who she's been, who she's had to be, and that she's waiting for me to take them down. That her heart has somehow imprinted on mine. But they obviously don't know her like I do. If I tare them down and bare her soul, she wouldn't be my Bones. She is who she has become because of them, at least Sweets and I can agree on that. I know deep down, if I'm the one to take that step, that leap, she'll never be the same.

"Hey Bones, what's up?"

I keep my voice light and I can't help but touch her because she wont face me and as hard as she is to read, and trust me she's impossible if you don't know what to look for, I need to see her. I need to try.

I place my hand in the crook of her elbow and give the slightest tug; she removes her hand from her pocket. I take a step closer and let my hand slide down her arm and take a gentle hold of her fingers. There's something in her hand but I'm so concerned with the look on her face it hardly registers.

"Hey Bones, you ok?"

This time I can hear the worry in my voice. She turns then, that half smile on her face, and nods. But there is no one on this planet I can claim to know better. And we both know she's a terrible liar.

I need so badly to make this right. Whatever it is that's wrong, I need to make it right.

So I wait for her.

Her voice is soft and unsure. In all our years together there have been so few instances where she's unsure.

"I found this earlier today. It was returned to me some time ago, when the evidence was released, and it's been in my desk drawer ever since."

In her hand is a small slip of paper, folded, torn and filthy. She holds it between us her grip on it tight.

"It was written so long ago and with the intentions that if in fact you were to read it, I would not be the one giving it to you."

As she says those words her voice falters, ever so slightly and my heart breaks at the sound.

"Bones look at me. Are you alright?" And finally she does, her eyes are wide, huge with emotion. Those enchanting blue depths almost swallowed whole by her pupils.

"Please, Booth, just read it."

Her eyes are pleading and still so guarded. I realize now in this instance that whatever this is, it will be monumental for us. It's the change she knows this small slip of paper will bring between us that she's so unsure of. And I can only hope for one small moment that it's a change all my dreams have been made of. But her eyes are drenched with unshed tears and she's trying so hard to keep her breathing under control. So I nod my head and hold her gaze. I need to take that look off her face before it becomes my undoing and I say things I shouldn't.

"When you say that you're alright Bones, tell me that there's nothing wrong and I'll read it."

She bobs her head once, her eyes never leaving mine. "I'm fine, just read." The slip of paper is in my hands, but I can't take my eyes from her face. She finally breaks away, stepping back and lets her hands fall to her sides. The paper is so old, so dirty and worn I wonder if the creases will withstand me opening it. I can't even imagine what this could possibly be. Evidence for what? Of what? I start, slowly to pull its edges apart when her hands come back to rest upon mine.

"They're just words."

She reminds me so softly it's hardly above a whisper. Her eyes are once again fixed on the paper and she will not look at me. I can feel her hand tremble as it rests over mine. I watch her closely as she fights this battle within herself. Who would think something so small could bring on so much fear in someone so strong. I look up at her face, but all that silky hair is in my way. I push a few strands behind her ear and find her porcelain cheeks glistening with tears. My uncertainties and concerns take a running leap into fear.

My Bones never cries.

"Bones?"

My hands cup her jaw; my fingers gingerly graze her cheeks and wipe her tears away. My heart is in my throat and my chest is so tight I'm finding it hard to breathe, but at the touch of my finger tips she leans forward and lifts up to her toes until our far heads meet. Her eyes are closed and her cheeks are pink and the tears won't stop. She grips both my wrists and takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Whatever this is it's hard for her. She's so far out of her element here it's all over her face, all over every inch of her body.

I look her over; breathe her in like I have so many times before. The scent, the feel, even the sound of her it all tug at the seams that hold my heart together. This amazingly strong, self proclaimed woman, this woman who knows her mind and never understands her heart is standing before me, so close I can all but taste her as I inhale.

I tighten my hold on that lovely face and pull my own back to try and focus. I softly and slowly drag my thumbs across her cheeks one last time and tilt her head back so I can see her eyes, but she keeps them closed. Keeping me closed out.

"Bones, whatever it is, I-"

She presses two fingers against my lips as her eyes come open.

I want to tell her whatever it is I don't care. I want that terrified look off her face and out of her eyes. I want her to know whatever it is I'm staying right where I've always been, right where I am now.

"Please don't speak Booth, no matter what comes next just please don't speak."

Her sapphire eyes never leave mine as she steps into me. Her small soft hands leave my wrists and cup my neck, our noses softly bump. There are so many things I want to say at this point, so many things I've longed to say for so long. But she's come this fare, farther than she's ever gone on her own and I'd rather cut my own tongue out than break her here.

"Remember, they're just words."

She says it again with just a touch of force this time. Her voice is low, just a husky whisper. Her eyes are shut tight and she shakes her head slightly as she makes this declaration.

"And no matter what those words say they'll never hold enough of what they really are supposed to mean."

And with that she closes the inch between us, her lips so warm and soft on mine. Her hands slide up my neck and she cradles my face in her palms, her arms crushed between both of our bodies. Gently I part my lips and take a taste, and she's everything I always knew she'd be and more. Every muscle in my body screams in eager anticipation. And yet somewhere deep inside myself I find the ability to keep the pace she's set. To stay where I've always been and, that's right by her side. I step into her, invade her space until we're flush against each other; but it's not close enough for her. She leans in gently until my back is up against the wall. My hands go from her face to her hair and down to her hips to wrap tight around her waist, pulling her closer still. Her hands are everywhere, my hair, my face and then inside the lapels of my jacket and along my collar bones. I've longed for those hands on me for what seems at this moment like forever. I've watched them work so many, many times. I've wondered after their strength and marveled over their beauty. And as her knees go weak beneath her and we slide slowly to the floor I thank God for every time I've held back. For every time I've halted my need to make my feelings known.

Some how she's ended up in my lap, her knees flanking my hips, and as I open my eyes my vision is consumed by her. I lift my hands to trace her face and her eyes open and lock onto mine. She pulls back and there are meager inches between us. Her cheeks are dry, her lips swollen and her breath short. She pulls back further but I can't let her go. I lean into her my movements mimicking hers, our faces never more than a breath apart.

Once again she leans in and rests her for head against mine, and lets her hands tangle in my hair, mine rest low on her hips along the crease of her thighs. We catch our breath together. And I pray that in this moment we were both wishing for the same thing. That there would be no protest, no declaration of mistaken intentions or wrongful actions, I long so badly to tell her, anything, everything I've held inside all these years, the desire and respect, the love and adoration. But she's asked me to be silent so I stay silent.

"I've never loved anyone, ever."

This statement is nothing new to me. She's been telling me for years that love is just chemistry, just some imbalance of chemicals in the brain.

But sitting here now sharing her breath, tasting her tears, I know her views have changed. All of her science never prepared her for the emotion that brought her to my door tonight.

"I've never loved anyone, never wanted to. And even now no matter how many times I try to rationalize it, I just can't. So I'm here."

With that statement my heart soars and I can't keep quite any longer.

"I'm so glad you're here Bones."

I don't push, no matter how fast my heart races and how desperately I want to beg for the words. She's reveled so much and I'm afraid that one false move, one impromptu step and all the walls that have come crashing down tonight will be built sky high once again come morning. So I bring her lips back down to mine and let the thrill fill me once again.

I feel her small nimble fingers slowly working the buttons of my shirt. Her touch is gentle with the slightest tremor, the slightest hint of hesitation. So I run my fingers up her hips and slowly up her back under her shirt, her naked skin flush against my palms. Her soft sigh fills my mouth as my hands run the full length of her back and grasp her shoulders.

She breaks away and raises her arms above her head; her eyes are locked on mine now. All the uncertainty that filled them only moments ago is now gone without a trace, there's only desire there now. And as her blouse flutters to the floor we speak simultaneously, once again our thoughts in tandem. At least we know that'll never change

"Will you stay?"

"Can I stay?"

Neither of us answers as I lift us both from the floor, my shirt joining her blouse along the way as I lead her down the hall to the bedroom and gently close the door behind us. And there on the floor beneath the fallen clothes lies the small slip of paper that leads us to wear we are. Forgotten for the moment, for the evening or perhaps forever. They're just words after all.


	2. Misunderstood

Misunderstood

Disclaimer: Disclaimed

So this story goes a little backwards. Chapter two takes place 8 hours before and chapter three will take place before that. . . Hope it's not too confusing.

The knock at the door was powerful and demanding, a force to be reckoned with. I rise up from my paper work after a quick "Yes?" wondering who would still be here on a Friday night after six, and find myself faced with Angela, her eyes bright, her face flushed, and her body nearly consumed by need for movement. So when she breezes by me without so much as a hello, I know I'm in for something.

She's paced my office almost three full times before she stops to speak to me. I find my motor skills and my way back to my desk, the open case file I was reviewing now almost forgotten. Her eyes meet mine for the first time and I find them filled to the brim. This stops me before I can lower myself back into my office chair.

"Do you have a minute?" She asks, her fingers are laced together before her, and there's something small concealed between them.

I nod in the positive, because at the moment she's rendered me speechless. Angela is an emotional, free sprite she knows her mind only because it's lead by her heart. She isn't one to visit my office seeking comfort or advice. She's usually the one giving it to someone else. Even though she hasn't asked for either I'm pretty sure in some form or another that's what she's come for.

An outsider would never confuse us for friends or confidants. We're of such a different nature that sometimes even working together is difficult. And yet at the end of a stressful week, to be able to sit with someone and share an hour and a drink, I guess you could say that makes us at the very least friends.

She's silent still, and I find myself taking this moment to put my mind in perspective so I rewind and run through the course of the day.

Did something happen that would explain the torment swimming in her eyes?

I can't find a single moment in what to me was an ordinary, run of the mill day. Hodgens was in high spirits which usually means everyone else was too. Dr. Brennan had been out of the lab almost the entire day with Booth, both with a new case and a court appearance. Clark had his busy work, in bone storage and on the platform. She had worked a reconstruction with him before lunch, but after an hour together I would think Clark would need the counseling more so than she. And I'm pretty sure Dr. Brennan is just down the hall in her own office with a desk covered in manila folders and glossy crime scene photos that mirrors mine. So as I watch Angela gather her words carefully I can't help but be a little curious as to why she chose my door to come storming through instead of her own good friends.

"I know you're wondering why I'm here."

I give her a small smile, confirming her assumption.

"I mean under any other circumstance I'd probably be in Brennan's office or over in Hodgen's layer, but this has to do with him, and it has to do with something Brennan can't, or won't, understand."

I find myself momentarily motionless, like a frightened doe in headlights. What kind of help could I possible offer her? I feel like an idiot almost instantly. Of course this has to do with Hodgens. There isn't much else that upsets Angela to this degree. And lets be honest here, I'm not exactly the person one should come to when seeking romantic advice. I mean she must know that it's Friday and that I would still be here. She also knows this is where you'd find me any Friday of any week.

"Are you all right, Angela?"

What kind of question is that? I demand impatiently of myself. Of course she isn't.

I take a few steps towards her until I'm close enough for contact and than I reach out and lay a hand along her upper arm. It's a gesture I would normally never make. I'm not one for unnecessary contact at work, so the look of surprise that crosses her face and the change in her body language don't discourage me. If the rolls were reversed she wouldn't think twice before comforting me and it would probably be more of a bear huge than the small inadequate graze of fingers that seems to be all I can offer her at the moment. The idea of a professional work environment never seemed to catch on with this crew. I've come to terms with that, I've accepted it and I guess somewhere along the line I've taken a page from their book.

She shifts her weight from one foot, than back to the other and than starts the process over again. I'm about to repeat my overly redundant question when she opens her right hand and shows me what I can only assume is the cause of this whole mess.

"Hodgens gave it to me."

It's a yellowed scrap of paper filthy and folded beyond recognition. The creases are lined with dirt and the corners are worried so that they no longer come to a sharp right angle but rather resemble the ragged peak of a mountain. This unusual and rather ugly gift doesn't surprise or alarm me. This is a man who keeps cockroaches and small rodents in his office. Who lines his walls with jars filled with dirt.

I don't care what he'd have to say about that, dirt is dirt to me.

I look up from this seemingly harmless ugly paper to find her watching me closely. I smile and shrug slightly, I'm so confused by her emotional state, her reaction to this scrap of filthy paper and I'm more than slightly eager to find a solution to this mess so I can get back to my case files and Angela can get her weekend started. So when she shakes her hand in a demanding manor it shocks me and in a knee-jerk reaction I lift the paper and begin to carefully unfold it.

I only make it through two folds before she starts to speak and I must admit I'm very curious at this point and it's difficult for me to stop and hear her out.

"I totally didn't see this coming. I mean he was in the best of moods all day we had lunch together for crying out loud." She turns from me yet again, running her fingers through her already tangled locks.

" And than as I'm on my way out I find him in Zack's old office hunched over this ancient evidence box and he's got that look on his face, you know the one, it's the look that used to surface the first few times he declared himself King of the Lab after Zack."

She meets my gaze, my guess to make sure I'm on the same page, and there's no doubt she's satisfied with my reaction, which I'm sure must mirror Jack's. Any mention of Dr. Addy and I find myself close to tears like some hormone enraged, love strung teenager. So with a satisfied nod she continues to pace the length of my office and continue her ranting.

"I go in, naturally, to see what he's up to and find him behind the desk with some evidence box open and that in his hands."

She points accusingly at the paper in question and says nothing more as I slowly continue to carefully unfold it fully. I figure I might as well find out what all the fuss is about, get to the bottom of all this because paper work and the weekend aside, my interest is truly piqued. There are only so many ways this sinario can pan out, only a few finales one can unearth from such a situation. . .

Unearth?. . .

Angela is back to her ranting and pacing and I must admit before even reading a word of the sloppy handwriting on this mangled paper I've drawn my own conclusion. Although the paper has been aged by earth and stagnant air it still holds the rich, thick texture of that used for printing a first edition in hard cover. I steal a glance at the flip side and find that Hodgens used the title page of what was at the time Dr. Brennan's latest release to confess his undying love and devotion to Angela when he thought all was lost.

I mean that's what this has to be right?

What else would send her into such a tizzy, what else would he have waited all this time to produce, and the one thing I know I would never, and I do mean never, go to Brennan for would be any matter of the heart. So here I stand Hodgens heart in my hands while Angela paces my office with her own, not only displayed on her sleeve but stamped across her forehead.

The room is suddenly quiet. So filled with silence it's practically screaming. And I find myself unable to guide my eyes to the problem at hand, this letter, this confession or declaration or apology, whatever it is, it was written with the knowledge that no one would ever find it. There's only one person in the whole of this world let alone the room that has a right to read it. So I fold it back down to its miniature state, take two quick, efficient strides and stop directly in her path.

"Angela, I can't read this. And you need to accept that. What's written on this paper was a dying mans last thoughts. And they were of you. The fact that he was lucky enough to live and hand them to you is a miracle unto itself. You can't take these words for granted. Nothing anyone ever tells you will be as true as what is beyond this folded mess. It's written in code and covered in dirt and nothing you could ever show me would be more like him than this."

I know my tone was harsh and my voice a little too loud but I've come to realize as open a heart as Angela has sometimes her mind gets in the way. So we watch each other closely for a moment, both gather what's left of our minds. And I watch the understanding cross her face, the tears are back but they're the happy kind so I'm not compelled to comfort her, but rather boot her out of my office and down the hall to Jacks.

She doesn't stop to hug me, doesn't speak a word as her smile reaches its full potential she's already moving, she's out my door and down the hall and as I hear her pace continuously quicken I also hear her call his name, slightly breathless but joyous and tender.

So here I am, alone again with my screaming silence. With my blessed, long awaited, screaming silence. And just as I lower myself back down into my chair and lift the file from my desk, its contents completely void from my memory, my door is opened yet again. This time there is no knock, just the brisk efficient movements that can only belong to one person. She makes her way to my desk, her eyes searching the room for someone or something.

"What were you yelling about?"

Dr. Brennan's eyes are questioning and slightly annoyed and they dart around my office like a flat foot walking the beat in down town Manhattan.

Like any cop. Like Booth.

I would never tell her that, she'd find something inadequate with the comparison. As I stifle a laugh and carefully place the façade of boss back on my face we both turn to the door as Angela's squeal of laughter vibrates through the lab and echoes in its rafters.

"I guess they've made up."

"I didn't know they were fighting." Is all she says and yet her eyes are all but screaming with an understanding I'm more than slightly surprised to find.


	3. What's Left Unsaid

They're Just Words

Disclaimer: Disclaimed

What's left unsaid

**A/N: Ok so this takes place directly before Angela and Cam's little conversation **

_So much about you that you never let them see, you turned away, but not from me. . . _

Angela signed the chain of custody card and slid the glossy 8x10 photos back into the manila evidence envelope. Atop that she added her final sketches, grabbed her purse and keys and headed for Cam's office. As far as she was concerned her weekend had started fifteen minutes ago and she wasn't going to waste another moment of it stuck inside. The weather had finally started to resemble that of spring and it had her itching for some fresh air. Maybe grab a bench in the mall and sketch a few passers by. Revisit her roots, so to speak.

As she skirted the platform, she looked up through the skylights to steal a glance at the quickly fading sunlight. Her steps slowed until she'd come to a complete stop. Twilight was upon them, the sky had already turned those lovely shades of pinks and purples that always made her think of ripe peaches and crushed grapes; they never ceased to steal her breath. And the clouds took on such a shine they truly looked silver lined.

She felt his eyes before she saw him, knew he was watching her, would swear she could feel it in the air. He was seated behind the desk in what used to be Zack's office. She knew he frequented the space whenever he was feeling off. He would never claim the room as his own but over time he'd lined the walls with what was his; tanks and cages filled with his creepy, slithery pets, labeled boxes filled with jars of soil samples or particulates from closed cases or remnants of experiments gone wrong. Tonight there was an evidence box set on the desk to his right, the lid no where to be found. The bright red labeled tape was worried, torn and peeling at the edges. He sat with a small evidence bag in his hands, his fingers slowly worrying the outline of the yellowed paper inside.

She sauntered over, taking her time and using it to assess the situation. His moods were always questionable but more so after he'd been alone sulking for God only knows how long. At least there was no alcohol involved, none that she could see anyway. She was glad it was she who found him; his heart-, which at times could be too big for him to handle was always clinging tightly to his sleeve. He had never been one for masking his feelings. And at that moment his eyes were sad, almost tortured. They were the eyes of a man steeped in self loathing.

Her love for him had never wavered it just lay dormant somewhere inside of her.

Despite her ever pressing need to vacate the filtered air and regulated temperature of the lab, he was hurting and his pain always brought her feelings for him racing to the surface. So by the time she reached the doorway, the delicious sunset was already gone from her thoughts.

"Hey Jack, whatcha got there?" She said, carefully adopting that cheerful, slightly leering tone she used so well when attempting to lighten his mood, forestall the inevitable.

He leaned back in the office chair and brought his feet up beside the box.

"Something for you actually. Something I should have given to you along time ago."

He gave her a dark look and tossed the packet rather unceremoniously across the desk toward her. It came to a sliding halt just shy of the edge, almost as if it knew they also teetered on the edge of something. He stood from his perch behind the desk, his eyes never leaving hers, and began to stalk the length of the room. He diverted his gaze from her face to the shelves before him, leaving her in his peripheral vision.

He was angry and had no real handle on the reason why. And the not knowing was probably what was bothering him the most. This was the old Hodgins. The angry all the time for no reason Hodgins. The man who, at times, walked around snapping a rubber band on his wrist in order to keep his mouth from spouting something foul. All he knew was that at times he found himself angry with her and angry with himself. Sure they were both to blame for the unraveling of their all too perfect love affair but that was no reason to go working him self into such a state.

After all, she never had moments of unraveling at the seams.

Like water off a ducks back.

Like Dr. Brennan.

As she stepped inside and reached for the small evidence bag her eyes wandered to the box beside it and seeing it brought the pieces of the evening into perspective. The box was labeled, "Hodgins, Jack November 2006." She knew inside there would be a pair of his jeans, his navy blue hoodie and his beloved leather messenger bad. They were the clothes he had been wearing when the Grave Digger had buried him with Dr. Brennan. It was a day burned into all their minds, not one of them would ever be able to put fully aside and forget the anguish Heather Taffit put them all through.

Angela dropped her purse and envelope beside the box and slowly lifted the bag. The paper inside was folded repeatedly, and the years in the air tight seal had turned the creamy paper a few shades darker than yellow, almost brown. She lifted her eyes and fixed them on his, begging the question without having to speak. No matter how either of them tried they were always so in tune with each other.

There was no need for words. How could there be when there wasn't a move the other person made that you didn't recognize? He knew every curve of her face, and all the tell tale signs of emotion in those curves. He knew that when she rolled her lips she wasn't just tasting the peach lip gloss he himself longed to sample, she was trying to keep from speaking before thinking her thoughts through.

He paced back towards her, his eyes now glued to the floor before him, his steps slow and sure. Only a breath from her face did he come to a full stop.

"Read it." He said his tone harsh with the strain of all the emotions he was trying desperately to keep contained.

For a moment Angela couldn't remember how to inhale.

"Jack, I'm not sure this is such a good idea."

"Trust me Ang, there's nothing there you don't already know."

He smiled at her for the first time that night, but it was shallow and brief. He slowly turned and in the same tempo, walked the depth of the office again. He stopped here and there to peek inside a cage or to slide his fingers along a mason jar filled with stones, or dust or dirt. On the outside, one who didn't know him would see a man in no hurry and with little on his mind. Angela however could see the tell tale signs of impatience and the slow, low burn of anger underneath.

It was the anger alone that truly worried her. He had turned it inward, like he'd done so many times before. And like so many situations before this she was always so unsure of how to react, which course of action to take. Like a screaming four year old in demand of sweets, giving in wasn't always the wisest of options. And yet despite her best intentions, she found herself reaching for the scissors.

Who was she to deny him something so simple?

She let the silver blades take hold of the edge of the bag, but couldn't bring herself to follow through. She left the clear casing in the razor edged grip of the blades and sat herself along the edge of Zack's desk.

"Why now? After all this time? What's the point of dragging this out again?" She has to ask, has to know the path that brought them here. What's the point of putting the past to rest if you're only going to go digging it up again?

"What's the point?"He questions incredulously, eyes angry and bloodshot. "Do you know what that is?" he asks, his voice booming in the small space as he points accusingly at the bag waiting in the scissors death grip.

Her shoulders fall along with her face, her eyes now focused on the item in question. She bobs her head in the affirmative before she speaks again.

"I have a pretty good idea, yeah."

"So what's the problem?"

"I don't deserve this." She looks up to find his eyes are as filled as her own, and that the heart on his sleeve just jumped ship and is now clinging to the collar of her blouse, making the fight for breath that much more difficult.

He turns and paces away again because watching the woman he loves cry is not something he can handle right now, on top of everything else. So after a few calming breaths he addresses her without turning.

"It was written for you. I should have given it to you a long time ago, like I said. I'm not asking for anything, I just think you deserve to know what I was thinking in those supposed last moments of my life. Because every thought was of you." He still doesn't turn, not even when he hears the quick brush of metal on metal as she drags the scissors across the plastic seal. He doesn't move an inch when she slowly opens the haphazard folds of the miserable paper. Not even when he hears her breath quicken, or when her feet patter softly across the threshold of the office and pick up speed down the hall.

_Who wants to be the one left watching in the wake of love lost anyway?_

**A/N: Once again I would like to express my great appreciation for StephanieW and her wonderful beta skills **


End file.
